


of glass collarbones and satin skin

by nico_niikura



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorders, Food, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24195016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nico_niikura/pseuds/nico_niikura
Summary: "He wasn't even sure if he would consider himself sick; for him, this was just a part of his life... He couldn't remember a time when his weight didn't bother him. Perhaps there never was such a time."
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Charlotte Siné, Pierre Gasly & Charles Leclerc
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	of glass collarbones and satin skin

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, this is my longest stand-alone fic! I was getting kind of tired of writing a bunch of gay sex, so here's a nice friendship fic. I'm in the process of writing much more, but I had to get this down as fast as possible because this idea was stuck in my head for a while.

He wasn't hungry.

He was being strong. It had been over two days since he had last eaten, and he felt more powerful and ethereal than ever. It was exhilarating, being so weightless. He could almost see his ribs through his shirt, if only he stood in a certain way in front of his mirror.

It was quarantine, of course, where the prying evil eyes of the media weren't hounding him constantly. They were like sinners in hell awaiting their master to come forth and reveal himself. Well, only sometimes. Most of the time, he felt like he was in the deepest pits of hell, unable to pick himself up off the floor so he could brush his teeth. But there were days like today where he felt like he needed to show off the new bones in his collection, as if he were an archeologist showing off the finds from his recent dig. And on those days, he truly felt like the sinner's king.

He was lying in his bed, feeling cold in his loose shirt. It was too thin for this weather, despite it being nearly 25 degrees. He couldn't help the goosebumps he got every few minutes. That was a downside of starving, along with the hints of lanugo in places that used to be bare. Another was his lack of energy, something he thought would never go away with his adrenaline-filled lifestyle. He had to survive each day with several espressos to feel like a living, breathing human being. They, of course, didn't count, only being 2 calories each. But, he had to admit, they added up to a number he didn't like to see, considering it was his liquid intake. God forbid he put milk in it -- he couldn't stand the stuff anymore. He couldn't stand most of the food he used to eat. Nothing was safe anymore. Not even sushi; it was a carb-filled rice bomb.

He put down his phone and huffed at the ceiling, as if daring it to say something to him. It, of course, stayed silent, and he rolled his eyes. He got up onto his feet, holding on to the bedframe as his vision grew blurry and dark. This came no matter how much he starved, but was infinitely worse when he was fasting. The most he could do was push through it, and pretended to not notice the bile rising in the back of his throat. It took almost 30 seconds for his vision to go back to normal, and he took a careful step to make sure he wasn't going to fall onto his ass like the many times previous when he had moved too quickly. His vision stayed the same though, and he started walking to the edge of his room.

On the other wall sat a full-length mirror, where he stared at himself intently, studying his face and hair and body but most importantly the new bones that popped up on it. He looked at himself up and down, noting the disheveled shaving situation he had sitting on his face. The shirt was very oversized on him, and he was wearing loose shorts underneath. He put his feet together and noted how far apart his thighs were from each other. He turned to the side and grabbed the edges of the shirt to pull it behind him, getting an idea of what his silhouette looked like without actually taking it off. He stretched so his back was straight and looked at his stomach. His rib cage stuck out like a sore thumb, and he could just about count each bone. He breathed out and held it, sucking in his stomach to fantasize about what he might look like at his goal weight: concave stomach, massive rib cage, needle thin legs with knobbly knees that keep knocking together the more his boney little body froze from the lack of fat covering it. He let go of the shirt and turned back to face the mirror, then pulled down on the collar to expose his collarbones. They were prominent as usual, but not prominent enough; he could barely see where they connected to his shoulder. Letting go of his shirt once more, he glanced at himself up and down again, reminding himself of all his insecurities, and finally looked away.

He opened the door in his room and shuffled his feet on his way to the kitchen. One of his favorite hobbies was to go into the kitchen and look in the fridge or pantry. Not to eat anything, no no no. He walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge, staring at its sparse content. He hadn't been shopping in nearly two weeks, and it was pretty obvious by how empty it was. The only thing in there was a half-empty bottle of wine, some condiments, the stale ends of a loaf of bread, and a pickle jar that was more liquid than pickle. The first thing he did was take the jar of pickles and place it on the counter. Then he looked at each individual item in his fridge, wagged his finger at it, and said "no". It gave him a ridiculous sense of power over his food, not to mention it was stupid, but it helped ease his mind when he was really hungry. He left the door open and turned to the pickles. His stomach groaned pitifully as he grabbed the jar, opening it after struggling for a second. Instead of grabbing a pickle and eating it, he lifted the jar up to his lips and sipped it. He made a face of course, but ignored it and took another sip. Putting it down, he put the lid back on it and shoved it back in his fridge. He grimaced again, and shut the door to his fridge, grateful that it didn't taste worse than last time. It wasn't his favorite thing to do, but he had read that pickle juice was good for keeping his electrolytes in balance, and he wasn't planning on fainting today so he had to do it. He could have had anything else, but he didn't have any electrolyte-balancing drinks, and pickle juice is mostly vinegar, so it had no calories.

He stuck his tongue out as if to push away the taste, and turned to grab a glass from his cabinets. He found one that was tall and thin (like him someday), and turned back around to walk to the sink. He turned on the faucet and watched the water slowly fill up the glass. It was kind of mesmerizing, watching the water bubble slightly as it rose higher and higher. He turned it off when it reached the top and took a long drink. His empty stomach felt slightly full, and he decided that was a win and walked back to his room.

When he came back and shut the door, he noticed his phone pulsing. Putting the glass down on his side table, he picked it up, and saw that he had missed a call. He glanced at the number with narrowed eyes, trying to remember if it was familiar or not. Then it clicked. He pressed the redial button and turned on the speaker. It rang twice before they picked up, the static noting that they were moving.

"Hey," the voice said. It was a high pitched and male, and it matched his face perfectly.

"Pierre, what's up? I forgot you got a new phone."

"God, I've missed you. It's been so long since I've seen you, even though we are so near each other."

Charles smiled into the phone. "You know, we can always video-call. It's not that big of a deal."

"It is! We're stuck in quarantine! Who knows when we'll be able to get out?"

Charles chuckled, and sat down on the bed. "You can still go out, you just can't like, do social things."

"Easy for you to say." Charles could almost hear him pouting through the phone. "You only leave the house to eat and hang out with Charlotte."

Charles winced at the 'eat' comment, his heart sinking a little. He didn't let it deter him though, and forced a dry laugh. "Like you're much better!"

"At least I go out and party every once in a while! Why did you stop?"

"It's not good for my training," Charles lied. Well, he wasn't necessarily lying, but he didn't say that alcohol was notoriously high calorie and he wouldn't be caught dead wasting his calories on something that empty.

"Whatever," Pierre huffed. "We should do something over a call."

"What could we do? It's not like we could have our own sad little party for two."

"No," he drawled. "But... we can have a sad little  _ dinner _ party for two!"

_ Oh Christ. _ "Uh, I don't know..."

"Come on, you can let loose a little bit. I'm sure your trainer won't mind you having a day or two outside of your program, especially since the world is going to shit."

Charles nervously laughed, and looked out the window, his eyes darting quickly. His mind was racing, thinking about what would happen if he broke his fast too soon, and oh god he'd have to break it gently, and oh jesus he had to be mindful of the calories, and he didn't have any-

"I don't have anything in my fridge!"

Charles heard Pierre faintly gasp. "Not even wine?"

His eyes darted to the right. "That's... pretty much all I have."

"Order something! Order sushi! You love sushi right? And it's healthy."

Charles cursed under his breath. He didn't want to eat, but he didn't want to disappoint his friend. He had barely lost a kilo this past week, but how many chances was he going to have to do this dinner thing with Pierre? Okay, probably a lot, but Pierre seems so excited and they both have time and it's not like Charles has anything planned tonight (other than scrolling through thinspiration on Instagram), so of course he should do it. But his fast...

"Okay, it's a date."

"Great! Oh, you should dress up so we look fancy, that would be cool. Let's call around seven, okay?"

Charles grimaced. "That works for me."

"Yay! Oh, this is going to be so fun! I get to eat what I want, and you get to eat what you want. Alright, see you then!"

"Bye," Charles said, then he took the phone away from his ear. He waited for Pierre to hang up, and then he put the phone down next to him. He sat there, staring at nothing, before his eyes widened and he fell back into his sheets.

_ Fuck _ .

So, he not only had to buy food and eat it in front of someone, he had to also wear something nice that didn't show off how thin he was getting. He might’ve enjoyed the media seeing how much he was wasting away, but he wouldn't dare show that to his best friend in fear of him asking questions. He wasn't ready for an intervention. He was far too fat for that. He could barely see his spine when he curled his back in the mirror.

His mind drifted to what he would wear. How nice was Pierre expecting him to dress? Besides, everything he had was tailored for someone with a couple kilos more weight. It wasn't much since Charles was mostly muscle, but it showed enough to be pretty obvious to the casual onlooker, much less his friend. There was a certain point where weight-saving was not a good enough excuse for anyone, and he was definitely past that.

He blinked and remembered the whole food ordeal. What would he even get? He had to find a place that had well-documented calorie counts, and he wasn't letting himself gorge on low-calorie filler. It would be so obvious if he only had cucumber Maki rolls, so he had to get what he would usually have. Maybe he would opt for more sashimi and avoid the rice all together, but stuff like salmon and tuna were so fatty that it would make him feel heavy and bloated. He decided though that fat was better than carbs because at least fat wouldn't send him into some kind of diabetic shock. Besides, fat on fish was healthy, and would offer him more vitamins.

Of course, he was going to continue his fast after this like nothing happened. He knew his scale would show an inflated number tomorrow, and he knew he wouldn't be happy until that number dropped significantly, and quickly. From his experience, that only happened with fasting since he was at such a low body fat percentage, and he couldn't risk losing too much muscle. But  _ god  _ he had to get all this weight off somehow. It wasn't enough. It was never enough.

He waited much too long, trying to push the event to the back of his head. It was six hours away. He didn't need to get so worked up over it right now. But he knew that if he didn't plan, he would panic last minute and probably end up crying on the phone rather than eating. He sighed and turned on his side, blinking a few times before grabbing his phone and opening it.

\---

He glanced at himself in the mirror for what felt like the fifth time today. He was no longer dressed in an oversized shirt and loose shorts. Instead, he was in a nice blue suit with a patterned shirt underneath. He decided against a tie, understanding that Pierre probably didn't intend the dinner to be  _ that  _ formal. The most significant part of the outfit was the way it sat loosely on his frame. He secretly enjoyed looking so thin, but he lifted up his shoulders anyway, trying to make him look broader than he was. He debated piling on a bunch of undershirts but decided he didn't want to look frumpy. He squinted at the mirror, squaring his chest, desperate to make himself appear like he actually filled out the suit. He couldn't help but notice the tendons when he stretched his neck, and the way his sleeves sat on his boney arms. He turned his leg and admired his socked ankle, and how big the pants appeared. Where they used to hug his thighs they now hung, gripping empty air. He looked at these aspects of himself and wished so desperately that he could show them off, to anyone that would look. But he couldn't risk that.

He scowled at the mirror, then turned to open the door out of his room. He had his phone gripped in his hand as he paced into the living room, walking towards the couch against the other wall. The sun was setting, and he sat down to admire the light in the horizon.

He always enjoyed the night time more than day, because at night he felt more alive. He could keep to himself and divulge in the many pictures of underweight men on his Instagram. Of course, there were women as well, but he felt weird looking at pictures of scantily clad girls as "inspiration" for his weight loss. He couldn't relate to them as well as he could relate to the thin men on the various accounts he followed. He kept this all on a separate, secret account where he was under an alias. He never posted, just observed, tapping through stories and scrolling through his feed. Sometimes they had "recovery" posts, and sometimes they encouraged their followers to eat without guilt. He only smiled and moved on, not sure if he was more afraid of recovery or of eating. He wasn't even sure if he would consider himself sick; for him, this was just a part of his life. He had always picked at his food and looked at his flaws in the mirror. It only escalated the more his weight was stressed. He resented that he could never be weightless enough to achieve the speed he wanted, and then he started to resent how he looked even more. He couldn't remember a time when his weight didn't bother him. Perhaps there never was such a time.

As he looked on into the dying sun's rays, there was a knock at his door. He left his phone on the couch and jumped to get to the door. He unlocked and opened it, revealing a bag left on his doorstep. He picked it up by the handles and looked around briefly before shutting the door behind him. He brought the bag over to his kitchen island and set it down. He pulled out the two boxes and opened them, checking to see if everything was correct. One box contained four nigiri sushi, two orange with white stripes and the other two a pinkish red. There was also a dollop of wasabi and some ginger. He nodded, then opened the other box, which had four pieces each of creamy white and pinkish red fish, along with wasabi and ginger. He smiled, and shut them both. He then rustled through the rest of the bag, pulling out some chopsticks and a few packets of soy sauce. He grabbed the now empty bag and threw it away, then went to his cabinets to grab a plate and a small bowl. He then spent the next ten minutes arranging the sushi and sashimi on the plate, along with pouring a packet of soy sauce in the bowl and mixing in some wasabi.

He admired his handiwork, then put the boxes aside. He patted himself down, and walked back to the couch to grab his phone, checking the time. It was almost seven, 6:54 to be exact. He put it down and glanced down at his food again. Something inside of him almost convinced him to devour all of the food right now, but he forced it away and instead focused on something else.

He walked to his room, noticing the sun disappearing to nighttime as he walked past his living room. He walked into his room and grabbed his empty glass from his side table. He shook it slightly, as if testing the missing liquid in it, then turned around to go back to the kitchen. When he came back, he was getting a video call, and he whispered a "fuck". He scrambled to sit, putting the glass down on the counter before accepting the call.

"Hello?"

"Hey Charles!" Pierre had shaggier hair than when he had last seen him, probably from the lack of hairdressers available. He pulled his phone back, capturing his outfit for Charles to look at. He was dressed in business casual, similar to Charles, only with a grey suit and a white shirt. He didn't have a tie on, and Charles noted that, thankful he had decided against that. He then put his phone up against something, and it displayed an array of Italian food that shocked Charles. He hadn't even thought of being that indulgent, and he almost felt jealous that Pierre felt free enough to eat as much as he wanted. But he quickly reminded himself that Pierre didn't need to lose weight like he did. He was the fat one.

"Wow, that is very impressive!"

"I even have some tiramisu for dessert!" Pierre smiled. He looked to be on a balcony rather than in his home. The sky was darkening in the background, and Charles could see a light turning on to illuminate Pierre.

"I did not get nearly as much..." Charles trailed off. He then placed the phone in front of him against his paper towel roll.

Pierre laughed. "That's so little! Aren't you hungrier than that?"

Charles shook his head. "Not really, not recently."

"That's so unlike you, mate," Pierre smiled again. "Usually you can eat so much before you get full."

That hit Charles pretty bad, and he felt it in his stomach as it growled at the food in front of him. He cursed it, and just tried to play it off as nothing more but an observation.

Pierre held up a fork. "Are you ready?"

"Oh, hold on, I have to fill my water glass," Charles exclaimed.

"Water glass? You're allowed to have some wine if you want," Pierre said.

"I shouldn't-" He stopped himself mid sentence. He couldn't tell Pierre why he wasn't going to have wine. He could make as many excuses as he wanted, but it was already suspicious as hell that he wasn't eating nearly as much as Pierre was. He had to keep throwing him off. He couldn't know.

"What the hell, let me get a glass," he said, smiling. Pierre smiled back, and put down his fork. Charles went out of view of his camera to walk to the fridge.

"I'll wait!" He heard Pierre's voice through the phone, and he weakly smiled. All the while he was opening his fridge door, he was panicking. He hadn't even thought about how much the wine would be. He had already calculated the meager meal he was going to have: 471 calories. A glass of wine had to be around 120 per glass. He grabbed the bottle from the bottom shelf and glanced at it. Thank the Lord it was a Sauvignon Blanc; he could have been screwed with a heavy red wine. He tried to memorize the label so he could look it up later, but he rolled his eyes and placed it on the counter next to him. He didn't exactly have all the time in the world. He went into his cabinets and grabbed a wine glass. It was thin but had a curvy body, and he noted the shape as he undid the reusable cork on his bottle. He poured until just below the curve, and he put the bottle back down. He was only going to have a glass, he promised to himself. He shut the fridge and left the bottle as he walked back to where his food was. He smiled at Pierre on his phone, and he made himself comfortable again.

"Are you ready?" Pierre held up his fork again.

Charles held up his chopsticks. "I'm ready."

Charles broke his chopsticks apart as Pierre started to dig into his pasta. Charles looked down at his plate, his stomach growling again. He wouldn't dare admit that he was actually excited to eat, but he couldn't exactly deny that he was feeling that way. He licked the end of his chopsticks and went in for the sea bass sashimi. He picked it up carefully, dipped it in the soy sauce, and placed it into his mouth. He almost gagged from the overwhelming flavor in his mouth, but he restrained himself and chewed it slowly, careful to count up to thirty before he swallowed. His stomach was finally happy that it was being filled with something, and he shut his eyes, relishing in the first bite.

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

Charles opened his eyes and looked at his phone. Pierre was smiling at him, chewing on his own food. "Oh, sorry," Pierre said, while still chewing, and he swallowed. "I didn't mean to speak with my mouth full."

Charles looked to the side sheepishly. "Sorry, I just haven't eaten in a couple hours."

Pierre raised his eyebrows, and he kept eating. Charles just took a bit of ginger, nibbling on it tentatively. He didn't actually count the calories for the ginger, but he assumed it was insignificant since it was a vegetable. He did make a mental note to look that up later, and to also not eat too much of it.

"So," Pierre said after he swallowed. "What did you do today?"

Charles hovered his chopsticks above his food, not sure of where to go next. "Nothing, really."  _ Worry about this dinner _ , he thought to himself.

"Oh, come on. You had to do something," Pierre pushed. "Go grocery shopping? Run? Work-out? Go on the sim?"

"I was on the sim for a bit," Charles lied. It really did sound sad that he did nothing but worry about his calorie intake and what he was going to wear. He could have been so productive today, but he wasn't. He just fucked around. What a sad life.

"I was on my sim too," Pierre said. "We should have driven together, that would have been fun!"

Charles laughed nervously, grabbing a piece of the sea bass with his chopsticks. He dipped it in the soy sauce and ate it. He didn't think about how much he was chewing this time, and swallowed it awfully quick. He grabbed another piece, this time of the tuna.

"It's so weird in quarantine, you can't do  _ anything. _ "

Charles stopped for a moment. "I mean, you can still do what you did before. You just can't leave."

"Yeah, but I miss actually being with people. It's weird just being home at night. I'm so used to going out and going for a run in a public place, but you can't even do that."

Charles ate the sashimi slice, still not thinking about chewing. He felt relaxed, like nothing could bother him. It was kind of... nice to eat without caring. It felt good to focus on the conversation rather than the food. Usually, he would be panicked and thinking constantly about how he looked and how he chewed and when he would swallow. It was always stressful, eating. But now he felt normal for some reason.

"I guess it is pulling everyone together," Pierre continued. "I can talk to my friends daily through video chat, even if they're far away. It's not weird now, it's just the way things are. I even talked to my parents the other day."

Charles nodded. His mind drifted as he glanced down at his plate. There was so much left, and he could feel his stomach filling up. Despite not having much in him, he was starting to feel full. It was probably from all the fasting he was doing, which was likely shrinking his stomach. He put down his chopsticks and took a sip of his wine, feeling it warm him up from inside as it slid down his throat. The feeling was interesting after having nothing but water, hot coffee, and pickle juice for two days. He put the glass back down and tapped his fingers against the base.

"Charles?"

Charles shook his head. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"You look tired," Pierre commented.

Charles smiled. "I feel tired."

"Did you sleep okay?"

"I've been sleeping non-stop, if I'm honest."

"Might as well, you have nothing else to do," surmised Pierre, who took a sip of his own red wine.

Charles looked down at his plate again, his eyes skirting around the leftover fish. He felt sick now. He could feel the aftertaste of the soy sauce, and it was making his stomach turn. He swallowed, forcing down the urge to gag.

"How have you been filling your time during quarantine, other than sleeping?"

Charles looked at Pierre, sitting back in his chair. "Exercising. Sim work. Sleeping. Talking to Charlotte." He added that last part so he wouldn't seem like he was being a weird loner in this lonely time, despite not calling Charlotte for two weeks. They texted and sent Instagram posts to each other, but they rarely called. Charles assumed it was because she was busy working with school. He didn't really think about it much; he was too worried about himself to care about anything else, even his own girlfriend.

His hands gripped the counter suddenly, and he felt his chest lurch.

Something was wrong.

"Pierre..."

"Yeah?" Pierre was chewing, and he glanced up at his phone. His eyebrows furrowed the instant he made eye contact with Charles though.

"I have to go to the bathroom really quick." Charles’ hands were still gripping the counter, and he felt his stomach squirm violently.

"Okay, that's okay," Pierre said quickly with a concerned look on his face.

Charles booked it out of his seat, holding his stomach. He ran for his bathroom, and dropped down in front of his open toilet. He noticed the seat was up, and thanked his past-self before vomiting into the toilet.

It was several seconds before he heaved again. He kept heaving until not even water was coming out. He breathed heavily, staring at his handiwork in the toilet and tasting acid on his tongue. He didn't throw up much, mostly water, but it made his stomach turn again. He shut his eyes, hoping that taking away the vision of it would keep him from heaving again. He felt gross and sweaty and empty, so fucking empty. His first thought was how grateful he was that he had nothing inside of him anymore, and then he scrunched up his face. He slapped his thigh, reprimanding himself for thinking of that when he clearly had other things to worry about.

He stayed there until his breathing evened out and he couldn't stand the acid still hanging around in his throat. He opened his eyes, grabbed some toilet paper and wiped his mouth. He glanced in the toilet again, felt his stomach turn, and looked away. He tossed the toilet paper into the toilet and stood up, his knees wobbly. He put his hand against the wall behind him, steadying himself before he reached over to flush the toilet. The sound of the toilet hurt his ears, and he blinked hard, trying to process it. When he finally felt like he could stand on both feet without falling, he walked over to the sink and turned on the faucet. He looked at himself in the mirror for the sixth time today and noted his gaunt face, the way his cheekbones pushed up his flesh, how hollow his eyes looked, and the thin skin that covered his neck. He turned his head slightly, glancing at his jawline as he rubbed his hands with soap. It reminded him of something, but he couldn't quite put a finger on it until he dried his hands. Then he looked back at himself in the mirror.

He looked like a skeleton.

He walked out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. Making sure he wasn't in view of his camera, he grabbed the water glass he discarded and went to the sink to fill it with water. He chugged it, feeling it wash away the acid in the back of his throat and coat the rest of his mouth. He put it back down when it was empty, breathing heavily, then filled it up again. Then he walked around the island back to his seat, placing the water down next to him.

He looked up at Pierre, who seemed to have abandoned his food entirely and was looking expectant. He smiled sheepishly.

"Sorry about that," he said meekly.

"Mate, what the hell is going on?" Pierre was incredulous. "First, you look like a dead person with those bags under your eyes, and then you showed me the smallest amount of sushi I have ever seen you in front of. I wasn't going to say something, until you ate the equivalent of three bites and rushed to the bathroom to throw up."

Charles looked down at his plate. Pierre went on.

"You barely fit in your suit as well! How heavily are you dieting?"

Charles blinked, unsure of what to say. It's not like he could tell Pierre he was starving himself because he didn't feel like he was enough. He couldn't say he was weight-saving, because there's a limit to that. He couldn't say his trainer had put him on an intense regimen, because he didn't look more muscular. He looked painfully thin, scarily thin, maybe thin enough to go to the hospital.

"I don't want to go to the hospital," he said under his breath.

"What?"

Charles looked up suddenly. "Nothing, sorry, I'm sorry."

Pierre tilted his head, smiling slightly. "You don't have to be sorry for anything. I won't tell anyone if you just tell me what's going on."

Charles looked away, thinking. Pierre could be lying. But why would he? He was his best friend, and Pierre rarely lied unless it was to his parents, and that was only when they were teenagers. But if Charles said what was really wrong, Pierre might feel obligated to put him in therapy, or something equally demeaning. He wasn't sick. He just didn't want to eat. And that brought Charles to the worst part about all of this: he didn't think he would want to change, no matter how much Pierre prompted him.

"I..." Could he say it? Was he okay with saying it? He wasn't sure.

"If you don't tell me, I'm going to break social distancing and come over there with all of my stuff and move in." Pierre looked somewhat amused, but Charles was not. He felt even more scared now, but quickly realized that Pierre was likely joking to lighten up the mood.

After some silence, Charles broke it with a sigh.

"I don't like how I look. At all. And because of that, I don't eat a lot... or at all sometimes. And I've been like this for a really long time, but it got worse in quarantine and now I don't know how to stop."

More silence. Then-

"So, when you said you haven't eaten in a couple of hours..."

"I actually meant a couple of days."

Pierre was looking down at his food, and Charles suddenly remembered that this was supposed to be a fun dinner date.

"It was supposed to be so fun and innocent, but I worried about this dinner for the whole day. I worried about what I was going to eat and what I was going to wear for the past six hours."

"I see."

Charles swallowed, tasting a little bit of bile once more. "I never wanted to worry you," he said quietly.

"I've always been fucking worried!"

Charles blinked, confused. Pierre carried on.

"I know you've always been like this. Sometimes you ate like you haven't eaten in years, and other times you barely touched your food. I thought you were just weird with food, but I noticed it every time we ate together. It only got worse when you got into GP3, when you had to be really careful about what you ate. Then I noticed that sometimes you would stare at what I was eating while you had nothing, or you would eat virtually everything."

Charles looked at him, shocked. He knew? Did everyone know? Was he that obvious?

"You don't have to hide anything from me," Pierre said. "I used to be the same."

Charles gave him a quizzical look. "What?"

"I took the diet they gave me way too seriously when I got into GP3. I restricted myself from certain foods, and told myself that I had to exercise everything off. I wasn't looking to be thinner though, I wanted to be stronger."

Charles thought back to when they were younger, wondering if he had ever caught Pierre acting differently. He could barely remember a time when Pierre would consistently turn down any dining opportunities, citing his strict diet as the culprit. It was so long ago, but he could still remember it.

"You're not alone, is what I'm saying," Pierre finished.

Charles blinked slowly, then looked back at his plate. There was untouched sushi on it, and he was starting to feel guilty. Why did he do this to himself, eat barely anything and then break it with shit that he would just end up throwing away anyway? Did Pierre think about that, too?

Charles glanced back up at Pierre. "Do you still do that?"

"No," Pierre replied. "I realized I was hurting myself, and stopped when I got into Formula 1."

Why didn't he stop...

"There's nothing wrong with you," Pierre said quickly. "You can fix this."

"But I don't want to," Charles said, tears starting to gather in the corners of his eyes.

"Why? Aren't you struggling?"

Charles put his arms around himself. "I don't know... I feel like I have to keep going until I'm at my goal."

"If it helps, you look plenty thin to me."

"You know that's not enough," Charles snapped.

"I know," Pierre said apologetically.

Charles looked away from Pierre, continuing to hug himself. He didn't need help. He was fine. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was wrong...

"What should I do?" Charles sighed softly.

"I mean, you should probably see someone and get professional help," Pierre offered. "I know you don't want to, but I can't help you with this."

"Are you sure?"

"Mate, I barely fixed myself. Besides, yours is deeper than mine ever was."

Charles looked back at Pierre, loosening his grip on himself. Pierre looked so caring and friendly. Why wouldn't he listen to him? He only meant well. He wouldn't hurt Charles. And if what he was saying was true...

"I'll think about it."

"You don't have to make a decision right now," Pierre said. "I still think you should get help as soon as possible."

"I know. I'll think on it, I just... I think I'll need some encouragement."

Pierre smiled. "I can do that."

Charles felt a tear roll down his cheek, and he let it, all while smiling. It was the only thing he could do to keep himself from bursting into tears. Maybe if he got help, he'd be okay with himself.

"This isn't really much of a dinner party anymore..."

"No, I guess it's not," Pierre said.

They were quiet. Charles was focusing as hard as he could on not crying anymore. He didn't want to do it in front of his friend. He just wanted to be alone now.

"Well," Pierre said, breaking the silence. "I know you're not going to eat anymore, so I'll call you tomorrow and eat the rest of my dinner on my own, okay?"

"Okay."

"Love you, goodbye," Pierre waved at the camera. Charles waved back, and the call ended.

Charles looked down at his plate, and felt another tear roll down his cheek, then another, then another, until he was sobbing.

"Maybe I'll be okay," Charles kept repeating to himself as he cried into his sleeves. He could barely believe them, but just saying them out loud was enough for him to feel reassured. Maybe he'll get help, maybe he'll be able to eat without worrying about what he looks like, maybe he'll finally enjoy food again. It seemed so far away, but maybe it was closer than it looked.

He still wasn't sure if that's what he wanted, but he was finally able to admit that he had a problem. And that was the most important thing to realize.

Maybe I'll be okay.


End file.
